Cold Shot to the Heart

by Wallace Stroby

  “Why do I want that?” Eddie said.

  “Let’s understand each other. You want that money, from Fort Lauderdale. I don’t have it, but I can lead you to the people who do.”

  “And who would that be?”

  “One of them is named Bobby Chance. You heard of him?”

  “No.”

  “He works out of the Midwest mostly. The other one’s a woman. Named Crissa Stone.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “Ask around. She used to run with a pro named Wayne Boudreaux, they worked together. Now he’s inside and she’s on her own. She and Chance fucked me over, took the whole haul.”

  “They the ones that put the beating on you?”

  “Yeah. Left me down there with a broken kneecap and three cracked ribs. And they took every dime.”

  “How much was that?”

  “My third was supposed to be a hundred and forty K. You can do the math yourself. They kept it all.”

  “So you’ve got a score to settle with them?”

  “Wouldn’t you?”

  “What about Letteri, the one who got shot?”

  “What about him?”

  “You pulled the trigger, you tell me.”

  “Whoever told you that is a fucking liar. Chance fired that shot. They tried to lay that on me afterward, too.”

  Eddie sat back down. After a moment, he said, “Something doesn’t make sense.”

  “You’re right, there was close to half a mil in that game. And the two of them took it all and framed me up for the shooting. So, yeah, I got a score to settle.”

  “So, maybe we can help you with that. Where are they now?”

  “In the wind, but they couldn’t have gotten far. Like I said, Chance is in the Midwest these days, but Stone used to be based up here, New York maybe.”

  “How’d you get in touch with them?”

  “I didn’t. They have contacts they work through. I put word out I was looking to put a crew together. They were available.”

  “How’d you reach the contacts?”

  Stimmer nodded at the phone. “It’s all in there. I’ve met Stone’s guy. His name’s Hector Suarez. He’s up here, Jersey City. Chance’s guy is named Sladden, out of Missouri. Take a look for yourself. Their numbers are both in there.”

  “Tell me more,” Eddie said. “Everything you know about them.”

  Stimmer talked for the next five minutes. Eddie scratched his chin, occasionally looking over to where Terry stood.

  When Stimmer was done, Eddie said, “Okay, I believe you. But it doesn’t look like you’re in much shape to go looking for anyone.”

  “I’m not. Not yet, at least. But I can help you.”

  “And what are you expecting out of this?”

  “I’m not expecting anything. I just want to settle it. You give me whatever you think is fair. Or nothing at all, that’s fine with me, too.”

  “It’s the principle of the thing,” Eddie said.

  “Something like that.”

  “You say you’ve got Suarez’s number in there?”

  “Yes.”

  “Show me.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I need to know if you’re bullshitting us or not.”

  Stimmer picked up the phone, punched keys. He held up the illuminated screen so Eddie could see it.

  “Right there,” he said. “HS.” Eddie nodded.

  “He’s a family man,” Stimmer said. He closed the phone, set it back on the floor. “Wife and kids. But he’s a hard case, or at least tries to act like it.”

  “Stand up,” Eddie said.

  Stimmer pulled his crutches closer, got them under him.

  “You need a hand?” Eddie said.

  “No, I’m good.” He rose slowly, looked at Terry. “You need to leave me some of that money. It’s all I’ve got.”

  “Don’t push it,” Eddie said. “So where do we start?”

  “Suarez. We get him to tell us where Stone is, she leads us to Chance. They both lead us to the money. There hasn’t been much time, they’ve probably still got most of it. They’ll be sitting on it, waiting for the heat to blow over.”

  “That would be the smart thing,” Eddie said.

  “Oh, they’re smart, all right.”

  “Could be tough finding them, though.”

  “I’ve worked with both of them before. I know them, I know people they know. I can find them. I just need help.”

  “Okay.”

  “When we find that Stone bitch, though, I want to handle it myself.”

  “I don’t blame you,” Eddie said. He sat thinking for a moment, then stood.

  “Listen up,” he said. “Here’s the deal. You help us find Suarez. He takes us to Stone. Whatever we get from her, my partner and I”—he looked at Terry—“split three-quarters of it. You get what’s left. That’s if we find anything.”

  Stimmer nodded, rested his weight on the crutches. “That’ll work,” he said. “And don’t worry, we’ll find them all right.”

  “I’m not worried,” Eddie said. He lifted the Ruger and shot him through the forehead.

  EIGHTEEN

  She felt calmer out of the city. It was a two-and-a-half-hour drive to Litchfield, another twenty minutes on a rural road north of town. It was colder up here, snow still on the ground, the trees bare.

  The house was set back from the road, thick woods on three sides, the trees dark and naked. Windblown snow covered half the FOR SALE sign on a post in the yard.

  She steered the rented Saturn up the driveway, parked in front of the single-car garage on the edge of the woods. The backyard was an unmarred sheet of white.

  The first time she’d seen the house, she’d fallen in love with it. It was a two-story colonial, built in the early 1900s, simple in design and detail, but with the look of permanence. It had been freshly painted since she’d last been here, white with green trim. Sunlight flashed off the big windows of the enclosed back porch.

  Against the garage wall was a pile of snow-topped firewood. She thought of the big fireplace in the living room, the brick hearth. Imagined building a fire while snow fell outside. This is the house I’ve always wanted, she thought. The house I’ve earned.

  She got out her cell, called the Realtor in Litchfield. When the woman answered, all Crissa said was “I’m here.”

  * * *

  The Realtor’s name was Jackie. She was in her forties, with long blond hair and a hippieish quality despite her business suit.

  “I know you’ve already been through here once,” she said as she unlocked the front door, “but I’m sure the Hammersteins won’t mind your coming back. Like we say in the business, they’re motivated.”

  She led Crissa into the big front room. The hardwood floor was dusty, the couch and chairs covered with sheets. Everything looked exactly as it had the first time she’d been here, three months ago.

  “When was the last time someone lived here?” Crissa said.

  “Six months maybe? The Hammersteins are in the Caymans most of the time now. He has business there. But they have someone come by every once in a while. I stop by now and then, too. They leave the power on.”

  “Is there an alarm?”

  “No. We don’t have much crime up here. You could leave your doors unlocked and not have to worry about anything.”

  “I doubt that,” Crissa said.

  “Well, you’re from the city. Things are different down there.”

  They walked through the dining room and into the kitchen.

  “Still,” Crissa said. “Seems like they’re taking a chance, leaving the house empty so long.”

  “Up here, it’s like a small town. Everyone knows everyone. Unless you don’t want them to, of course. I mean, it’s very private, too.”

  They went out onto the porch. Light poured through the tall windows, warming the trapped air. She had a vision of the cat with the torn ear curled on the sill, sleeping in the sun. This would be a good room, she thought. A ro
om to sit in when you grew old.

  “It’s an old house, but charming,” Jackie said. “It just needs a little work here and there.”

  “That’s okay. I’m handy.” She looked out into the snowy expanse of yard, the trees beyond. “What about the neighbors?”

  “The Coopers are down the road a ways. If you look to the left there, you can almost see their house through the trees. He’s an architect, she’s a party planner. They have a condo in Manhattan, so they’re mainly up here in the summer. Sometimes weekends during the fall, too. The leaves around here then are unbelievable.”

  “What about the other side?”

  “That’s very sad.”

  “Why?”

  “Mr. Dubro, who owns it with his wife, worked for a big insurance company in the city. There were some shenanigans with mortgages or something, I don’t know what exactly. The company went under, and he ended up in some sort of trouble. They tried to sell the house, but the way the market’s been…”

  “It could have been worse,” Crissa said. “He could have gone to prison, lost the house altogether.”

  “I guess that’s true.”

  “Kids in the neighborhood?”

  “No, not nearby at least. You’re probably glad to hear that.”

  “No. It would be nice if there were. How are the schools?”

  “Most of the children bus into the next county. The middle school there always makes the list of the state’s best. Do you want to take another look upstairs?”

  Crissa nodded, and they went up to the second floor. Two bedrooms here, a bathroom with new tiling and an old clawfoot tub. She went into the rear bedroom, Jackie following. The room smelled of dust and mothballs. The bed was stripped, the other furniture covered with sheets.

  At the window, Crissa looked down on the gleaming white yard. She had a clear view of the driveway, the garage, and the woods beyond. A dead wasp lay on the sill.

  “Great exposure in here, as you can see,” Jackie said, “and quite a view.”

  A bird landed on the woodpile, pecked at the snow, flew away.

  It would be a different world up here, Crissa thought. Far from the city. A house to call her own, with land, not just a cramped apartment with three rooms, noise in the street all night. A new life, if she could afford it. A place to come home to.

  “So what’s the holdup?” she said.

  “Holdup?”

  “On the offer I made. You said they were motivated.”

  “I’m not sure. I guess they’re having some issues deciding. There are several offers on the table.”

  “With sixty percent down? Two hundred and fifty thousand cash?”

  “I’m sure they’re taking that into consideration.”

  “My lawyer says they want to know more about my background.”

  “That could be, I don’t—”

  “Is it because I’m a single woman? They’re wondering where the money’s coming from?”

  “I really can’t speak for them.”

  “I’m not going higher, if that’s what this is about.”

  You can’t afford to anyway, she thought. Thinking about Wayne then, in his jailhouse khakis. Wondering if, when it came down to it, she would have to choose.

  “I’ll talk with them again,” Jackie said. “They’re going to call me this week from Grand Cayman.”

  “I think we’ve got the same goal. You want to close the deal, earn your commission.”

  “Of course, but—”

  “So maybe a time frame will help them decide. Say a month from today. We get the inspectors in, and, if there’s nothing major, I cut the Hammersteins a cashier’s check for the down payment, and we get the lawyers going on the closing.” Trying to be casual, not have it sound like a threat.

  “I’ll talk to them.”

  “After that date, who knows,” Crissa said. “I’m looking at some other places, too, in Plymouth and Torrington.” Lying.

  “I’ll do my best.”

  “I know you will. Thank you.” She extended her hand, and Jackie looked at it for a moment, then took it.

  “Make it clear to them,” Crissa said. “One month. Or I walk.”

  “I’ll let them know.”

  “And let them know one other thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I don’t bluff.”

  * * *

  Later, she drove into Litchfield, parked on Bantam Road, and walked along the row of antique shops. Christmas music was playing everywhere. She stopped to watch an electric train display in a toy store window.

  It had started to snow again, the sky a hard gray. She decided then not to drive back to the city. There was a motel just outside of town she’d stayed in once before, a restaurant across the street. She’d have dinner and a couple of drinks, get a good night’s rest, head back tomorrow. Or maybe stay another day, drive around a little, get more of a feel for the town.

  She thought about Stimmer, back in the city, maybe looking for her and Chance. The thought of it made her angry. But if he surfaced, Hector would hear about it, let her know. She’d worry about it when the time came.

  There was no hurry to get back. Up here, it felt right somehow, as if things were in balance. It felt like the future. It felt like home.

  * * *

  The second time he came over, Crissa realized the man in the flannel shirt was hitting on her.

  She was sitting at the bar with a glass of red wine, looking up at the TV. It was a game show she’d never seen before, lanky models displaying metal cases on pedestals. The sound was turned down. Soft music leaked through from the adjoining restaurant.

  She’d left the Saturn at the motel, walked over. She’d had a meal and a glass of wine in the restaurant, decided to do the rest of her drinking at the bar. It was an old building, weathered oak paneling, colonial prints on the wall. A gas fire flickered in a flagstone hearth, warming the room. Light snow blew against the windows.

  The man in the flannel shirt came up behind her, empty glass in hand. She watched his approach in the bar mirror. He stood close to her, though there was only one other person at the bar. He set his glass down, signaled the bartender.

  She was on her third glass of wine and feeling relaxed for the first time in weeks. She’d left her cell in the motel room, felt freed by its absence.

  “Hi. My name’s Travis.”

  She turned to him, ready to cut him off, shut him down. Late twenties, Levi’s and green flannel, boots. Dark hair and brown eyes, a hint of five o’clock shadow. His cologne was faint and musky.

  “Sorry if I’m interrupting,” he said. “I thought I’d introduce myself. Since we’re both alone.”

  She looked over at the table where he’d been sitting, the leather jacket hung on the chair, then back at him.

  “Maybe that’s a choice I made,” she said.

  “Aha,” he said. “Sorry about that.”

  The bartender set his drink down. He took it and started to the table.

  “Hold on,” she said. He turned.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “That was rude of me.”

  “No, I totally understand. I was out of line. I’ll leave you alone.”

  “Come sit down.”

  He came back, slid onto the seat to her right. She put out her hand. “Roberta Summersfield. My friends call me Bobbi.”

  “Travis Unger.” He shook her hand.

  “Like Felix?”

  “My curse in life.”

  “I apologize, Travis. I’m a little tired, that’s all.”

  “I wasn’t sure if I should come over. You look like you’ve got things on your mind.”

  “You have no idea.”

  When the bartender came back, she nodded. He filled her glass, took money. She was feeling the wine, the heat in the room, a pleasant light-headedness.

  “I was being a little forward, I guess,” he said. “Coming up on you like that. But I figured, what the hell?”

  They drank as they ta
lked. He was a carpenter from Long Valley, New Jersey, in Litchfield building custom cabinets at a pair of houses in town. He’d been here almost two weeks, he told her, and was feeling homesick.

  “Don’t you have an assistant?” she said. “Someone helps you with the work, lets you take a break for a couple days?”

  “I did, but things got so slow, I had to let him go. It’s starting to pick up a little now, but it’s still not enough to keep two people working.”

  “Sorry to hear that.”

  “You here on business?”

  “Looking at some houses,” she said. “Maybe buying.”

  “That’s a brave move these days. What do you do?”

  “Investments. Here and there. Some property.”

  “A speculator.”

  “Sometimes.”

  “You like to take risks.”

  She shook her head. “Not me.”

  She was starting to warm to him now, his manner easy and relaxed.

  “You up here from the city?” he said.

  “Just until tomorrow.”

  “Are you married? You don’t have to answer that.”

  “No, not married.”

  “Engaged? Someone special?”

  She gave that a moment. “Yes.”

  “That’s good. You have a slight accent. I’ve been trying to place it. It’s very faint, and it’s not New York.”

  “No, it isn’t,” she said, wondering how much to give him.

  “So you want me to guess?”

  “Texas,” she said, “but that was a long time ago.”

  She sipped wine. It happened like this three or four times a year. The last had been in Tortola. She’d be away somewhere, under another name, and she’d meet someone this way, without trying. It would last a day or two at most, more often just a single night. It would take the edge off for a while, but without entanglements. She wasn’t who they thought she was, so she owed them nothing.

  “How about you?” she said. “Married?” She’d already seen the pale band on his finger where a ring had been.

  “Divorced,” he said.

  “Sorry to hear that. How long?”

  “Divorced? A year. Married, eight.”

  She thought about Wayne. Seven years now, three of those with him in lockup. Wondered what he would say if he saw her here now, talking to this man, smiling, drinking.